


and if heaven wants to take us they can try

by Trojie



Category: The Young Blood Chronicles - Fall Out Boy (Music Video)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Failed Suicide Attempt, Gen, Suicide Attempt, Where Did The Party Go? (Song), this is weird and i'm not sorry, this probably makes no sense if you haven't seen the WDTPG video
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-10-02 00:16:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20444774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: Pete, trapped in the hospital, finds a patient trying to take another way out. He applies first aid.





	and if heaven wants to take us they can try

Pete peers around a corner, and the only sound he can hear is the sledgehammer of his heart against his ribs. There's a cold, sweating terror in his gut that he's going to see a glint of yellow, hear that fucking scream again, too close to run from and too loved to punch. He's lost Andy, lost Joe, somewhere in this maze of a place, but he can't really _trust_ that he's lost Patrick.

He's somewhere in the labyrinth, and so's the monster.

For some reason he's still carrying a fucking phone, too. Swimming in the deep dark blue of an abandoned building, clutching it like a lifeline, all the wires cut. 

He honestly might piss himself in fear. He needs somewhere to hide but where? He rounds out the corner, too many seconds out in the open, no wall for his back, alarmalarmalarm - and there, there, a door, ajar. He darts through it and forces himself to take the time to close it softly and quietly even though he wants to slam it.

When he turns around he almost falls over in fright.

In the moonlight ekeing in through a dank, nasty skylight, a body on a gurney. Fuck this - Pete's back out of the room in a flat second.

Footsteps in the dark - Patrick's cadence. Pete would know it anywhere, even if half of his brain had melted. His body knows that rhythm well enough that it doesn't wake up for it, y'know? Except now it terrifies him. He's so fucking turned around, he passes that same room again and he can't help peering through the window as he runs - 

The body's gone. 

There's something white high up, a ghost-like sheet, a tacky leftover Halloween decoration, a Tarot card design. The Hanged Man. Twisting. 

Twisting like -

Twisting. Moving. There's no air in this place, no breeze, it's like a mausoleum, so the only reason the body would be twisting is …

Pete drops the phone and busts through the door, bulls towards the person swinging in the middle of the room until his shoulder hits their knees and then he grabs, hoists them up as high as he can to take the weight of their body off their fucking stupid neck, scrabbling for the knot. It's just a granny knot, in some kind of rubbery tubing, hardly a proper goddamn noose, but it takes him a minute to get it untied so he can bring them down to the floor and by that point they're not kicking anymore. 

'No you fucking don't,' he snarls, shoving them til they're flat and tilting their head back like the card he used to carry in his wallet told him to, fighting the hospital gown they're - he's - wearing to find the divot down the middle of his chest, the right place to sandwich two hands on top of each other and start compressions. 

The Bee Gees start throbbing through Pete's skull. One hundred and four beats per minute. He pushes and pushes and pushes, staring at that slack open mouth, willing it to breathe again. Nothing moves now the kicking's stopped, not the blue darkness, the white gown, the candlewax skin, the red, red mouth. None of it. 

Pete licks his dry lips. 

Push. Push. Push. Push. He almost starts singing, gets as far as 'Ah - ah - ah -' and then bites his lip shut so hard he tastes blood, because jesus fuck Pete. 

No breathing. The weird rubbery tubing is tangled around one of Pete's wrists, he doesn't know how it got there, it's like a tentacle with a mind of its own, but he's more worried about the stillness of the ribcage he's laying into, the cyanotic pallor on that too-pretty face. He hoists himself up further and has to force himself to take his hands off the hollow ribs of the patient under him in order to tip his chin back, pinch his nose. 

You're supposed to do two breaths to thirty compressions, Pete's brain inanely informs him. He hasn't been counting. He leans down and seals their mouths together. Breathe out, til those lungs inflate, and pull back. Breathe out again, and then back to compressions, back to the Gibb brothers keeping him on thematic track. 

The tubing snags at him again and he yanks at it to get it away and it catches - 

Bright red, suddenly - sharp steel pulls free and there's a bead of red in a blue blue vein. The tubing pings free and clatters into the corner of the room. The patient jacknifes under his hands and starts coughing, and Pete throws himself off backwards trying to get away from the sudden violent noise, that might draw predators. Might call the monster. 

'What the fuck,' the guy rasps. 'Why - motherfucker, I was trying to -'

'I know what you were trying,' Pete growls at him, hands fisted in his hospital gown, shaking the guy. 'What the fuck were you thinking?'

Footsteps outside, out of sync with that 104, with Pete's tachycardic heart. Pete's on his feet before he knows it. 

'Get the fuck out of here,' he snarls at the guy he just rescued, darting for the door. He has to get out too, he has to find Joe and Andy and get out of here. 

Except. Patrick finds Joe first, and Pete and Andy are seconds, aeons, too late.

The guy in the hospital gown finds Pete under the gurney. Too late.

**Author's Note:**

> This was, I think, the beginning of the first attempt at my Fall 2019 no_tags entry - I ended up taking out the second part and reworking it into the fic I eventually submitted, but I kept this, and forgot about it, and I've just re-discovered it and I genuinely am not sure what the hell I was thinking BUT I kinda like it, in all its weirdnesses.
> 
> I guess it's kind of the lost bookend to [my magazine is full of ugly things](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16367927)


End file.
